


There's Always a Brew. Always

by Say_it_aint_so



Category: Babylon 5
Genre: Coffeeshop AU, F/F, F/M, Gen, everyone ends up happy au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-23
Updated: 2018-09-23
Packaged: 2019-07-15 22:51:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,342
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16073021
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Say_it_aint_so/pseuds/Say_it_aint_so
Summary: When former air force commander Jeff Sinclair opens his dream coffeeshop in a tiny space in the middle of a new city, he doesn't expect a grumpy barista who can silence the most annoying customer with a glare, her escaped from a cult almost-kinda-sorta-it'scomplicated girlfriend, a former Michelin star chef turned baker who wants to save humanity, a cynical cop who hates doughnut jokes and a girl who just wants a damn happy ending for once to become his family. And that's not even the half of what happens.





	There's Always a Brew. Always

Babylon 1 was destroyed by fire. 

Babylon 2 by flood. 

And the less said about Babylon 3, the better. 

Babylon 4 was located in a gps ghost zone and people could just never find it. 

If Jeff Sinclair was a man of mythical faith, he would say that the idea of Babylon - an independent, safe and ethically sourcing coffeehouse - was impossible.

Others sure did, of course. 

But Jeff Sinclair, master of philosophy, war hero and small businessman, was a man of hope. Hope had saved him before when he was the sole survivor of the last official battle of the last official war. Hope had saved him when the love of his life left to pursue her dreams of flying. Hope would save him now. 

Well, he hoped it would. 

"Susan," He turned to his favourite and only barista. "Do you think that hoping to hope is-"

"I'm Russian." Susan Ivanova, self proclaimed god of everything (especially efficiency and scaring the crap out of annoying customers), interrupted his philosophical musings before he could finish the sentence. She knew what he was going to say. She always did. He'd once joked that she could read his mind. He never suggested such a thing again. Not for fear of her anatomically gruesome threats, of course, but because he could tell that the joke affected her in some way he didn't understand. "We don't hope. We wait for the inevitable disaster and deal with it. Much like the morning rush." 

"Pity," Michael Garibaldi drawled, leaning on the counter closest to Susan and the coffee machine. He didn't officially work at Babylon 5 but was there almost as often as the furniture. He claimed that as a city beat cop, he knew all the official health inspection statuses of all the local coffeeshops and Babylon was the only one close to reasonably safe. But Jeff knew it was because he liked keeping an eye on his old air force commander and enjoyed antagonising Susan and begging for free food from Franklin. "I was hoping you were rushin' to make my order." He grinned broadly at his pun, eyes darting to Jeff own small smile before daring to meet Susan's glare. 

Susan smiled back at him, sweet as cyanide, and flicked a lever on her fancy don't-you-dare-touch-that-sir-or-you'll-break-it-and-I'll-have-to-break-your-face-sir coffee machine that cost Sinclair more than the first year's rent. A jet of steam streaked a few centimetres from Garibaldi's arm, making him jump back. "You were saying?"

"That's assault police."

"It didn't touch you. And your face is an assault on my senses."

"You love me, really."

"I'm going to kill you."

"Those two are not mutually exclusive, you know." Lyta Alexander, waitress and customer wrangler extraordinaire, piped up as she strode into the shop to pick up the next round of drinks to go to the customers waiting outside. They'd learnt quickly that the large crowds that Babylon 5 attracted couldn't fit inside the small coffeehouse and expanded into a garden outside, where customers waited for their orders. Unless, of course, the customer was Garibaldi or one of their odd 'Ambassadors of Annoyance' as Susan called them. 

"All quiet on the western front?" Sinclair asked her, knowing that the morning rush was the craziest time and she and her co-waitress and till wrangler, Talia Winters, were often literally run of their feet. And he hoped that reminding Susan of work would distract her from Garibaldi's teasing before she did deliberately burn him a little, somewhat deservedly. 

"Yes sir." She ducked her head, tucking a piece of bright red hair behind her ear and began loading up the tray with the disposable coffee cups Susan had prepared.

"You don't have to call me sir, Lyta, we're a family here, remember?"

"Yes sir. Sorry s-" She stopped herself from saying it again, closing her eyes and pursing her lips in frustration at her mistake. "Sorry, habit. I'll get out of it eventually. I just have to work on it." She quickly grabbed the tray and scampered outside to disperse the drinks to the last straggling customers of the 9am rush. 

"Feel free to call me sir anytime you want." Garibaldi called after her jokingly trying to lighten the mood. He'd never been good with awkward silences. 

"Mr Garibaldi." Sinclair looked at his old friend. He had a rule with customers flirting with his staff, even in jest, and Garibaldi knew better than that, especially with Lyta and Talia, the youngest of his already too young staff. Or maybe he was just old now. He felt old now, bones creaked and old bullet wounds ached with all too frequent alacrity. Perhaps he should add musings about time to the philosophy discussion group agenda for the next Thursday meeting. But that was a matter for another time. "You know the rules."

Garibaldi straightened, tugging at his uniform jacket and exaggerated a look at his daffy duck watch. "Oh would you look at that, I have to do another patrol and catch some idiots smoking dope in broad daylight. Honestly, kids these days just don't know how to be decent criminals."

"Lucky for you then," Susan said, handing him his coffee that was more sugar than liquid. "Since you're not a decent cop." She pulled a mock sympathetic look then grinned shamelessly at the tease. 

"Ha ha." Garibaldi grabbed his coffee and left, saluting Sinclair and Lyta on his way out into the alleyway garden. 

You could barely swing a cat inside the actual coffeehouse. (Susan had started to try before Talia caught her and got too distracted by arguing to see Franklin steal the cat and find it a safer home than their neighbourhood streets). The garden, however, was a marvel of spatial engineering and held more people than they'd thought possible. Sinclair had, with the help of a friendly bookshop owner who'd loved plants and devising grand schemes previously thought impossible, created a long stretch of garden beds full of herbs and flowers that ran down the alleyway and up the walls of the building. Small, mismatched tables and chairs that Sinclair and Garibaldi had spent a few weekends collecting from garage sales gave the customers somewhere to sit and relax in the middle of the bustling city. 

The garden was something Sinclair was incredibly proud of and enjoyed immensely. After making sure that Talia was fine handling the till, Sinclair stepped outside and took a deep breath. (The girl was always fine and would never admit when she needed help. Sinclair would work on that later when there were less customers around and Susan wouldn't distract her.)

"You look like you've had a morning, my friend." Delenn, the aforementioned devious and generous bookshop owner smiled up at him from her favourite seat, conveniently hidden down the back of the alley and opposite the backend of her shop so she could duck back in, if her dedicated assistant required assistance. Her last name was butchered so often by English speakers that she'd given up on using it. Or that was the story she told most people at least. When she'd met Susan, Susan had said it made her like Madonna, which had led to an entertaining morning explaining Madonna to the young hijabi muslim woman who'd grown up in an isolated part of the Middle East. Sinclair hadn't been able to get some of those songs out of his head for months, haunted by Garibaldi's butchering of 'Like a Virgin'. 

"Every morning is a morning," Sinclair replied, taking his customary seat next to her. "If it wasn't, it wouldn't be morning."

"True," She nodded and sipped daintily at the herbal tea that Sinclair made specifically for her, inspired by his time spent in her homeland. "But why don't you tell me your tale of wonder and woe."

"You have more important things to than to listen to an old man ramble."

"Few things are as important as friends, Commander Sinclair." She placed a henna decorated hand on his and squeezed lightly. "And fewer things are as entertaining as our friends."


End file.
